Reckoning
by Moon Raven2
Summary: Reid's drug habit has gotten out of control, and now someone has to pay the price. In Florida, a killer is abducting couples and giving them an ultimatum: Kill your lover and I'll let you go. AU/OC/case-fic; largely Reid-centric.
1. Prologue: The End is a Beginning

**Reckoning  
**

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**a/n**: I wasn't really planning to post this so soon, but here it is anyway...

First, a few caveats.

This prologue actually takes place at the _end_ of the story, so don't get confused. Events Reid refers to will occur throughout the story to follow.

Obviously this takes place in the same AU as my story "Endgame," and is, in fact, a sequel to that story. It's not 100% necessary to have read "Endgame" first, but there are things that will confuse you if you haven't.

Some continuity explained: this takes place several months after my story "Endgame," in season 2 after 2x17 "Distress" but before 2x18 "Jones." I wasn't really satisfied with the resolution of Reid's drug problem in "Jones," so I decided to rewrite it.

I think that's pretty much it. Please drop me a review with any questions/criticisms/praise/cookie recipes you may have. Thanks!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Not one lil bit. Thanks to Jeff Davis et al. for creating them and letting me play. :D

* * *

**Prologue: The End is a Beginning**

**I stuffed myself sick  
On the beautiful mess that we made.  
But I'm so tired of being inspired  
Only when things slip away.  
**-Matt Nathanson, "First Time"

The bottle felt heavy in his hand. Heavy and light, wrong and perfect. He stared at the little vial full (or half full, to be honest) of liquid heaven, and he wondered.

If he hadn't gone into that bathroom to shoot up, would the UnSub have had an opportunity to grab them? If he hadn't been so out of it, would he have observed the man in the bathroom more carefully? Jack told him - repeatedly - it wasn't his fault, but they both knew everything might have fallen out differently if it weren't for the Dilaudid.

His Dilaudid. His habit. _Addiction_, that nasty word.

The vial mocked him. Called him. Seduced him. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything, but he just held it. And stared.

Standoff between man and vice was abruptly broken by a knock on the door. Surprised, guilty, he stashed the vial and hurried to answer. He checked the peephole and suddenly forgot how to breathe.

"Spencer? Open up," she called. "I know you're not asleep."

He choked a little, and then recovered enough to open the door. "Jack," he managed, "what, um...you look...um..."

"Oh," she said, glancing down. "Yeah, I have a date," she explained. "What, too much? I don't want to look desperate. Or slutty."

He swallowed and used the question as an excuse to examine her more closely. She'd done something to her eyes, some sort of mysterious female magic with dark, smudgy makeup that made the green intense, verdant; spellbinding. The dress was strappy and cut low in the front, with a skirt that flared out and stopped well above the knee. Her shoes looked impossibly high; he worried for her balance in those shoes. He looked up from her footwear, realizing she was waiting for an answer, and cleared his throat. "Not desperate or slutty," he confirmed.

She smiled, green eyes glowing with warmth. "Excellent. Listen, I just wanted to stop by and check on you. I know you don't need a babysitter, but..." Her expression clouded, the smile fading. "I worry, that's all."

Despite her clever hand with makeup, the faint tinge of a bruise could still be seen along her cheek. Her lip was still swollen. "I'm surprised, after everything, that you felt up to going out tonight," he said rather than addressing her concerns.

"He's a friend," she explained, raising a brow. "We used to work together at the Agency. I told him I had a hard few days at work; he knows me well enough to understand that generally means bloodshed."

"A friend," he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. "In that dress?"

Her nose wrinkled a little. "Someone I've known a long time. We were involved, then...not. Now that I've left the Agency, I think we might give it another try." She waved it away, looking up into his deep-set hazel eyes. They looked even deeper than usual, and they were rimmed in bruise-like darkness. "You've never cared about my personal life before."

"Your personal life never showed up on my doorstep in four inch heels before," he replied mildly. He was being unfair; cruel, even; but that defense mechanism had been working quite well against her well-meaning attention since Henkel.

She opened her mouth, but then snapped it shut again. Glass-green eyes narrowed in a strange combination of hurt, anger, and disappointment. "Fine. Forget I came by," she finally managed. "I won't bother you anymore." She turned in a whirl of skirt and spicy scent and stalked away.

He watched her go, thinking of that vial hidden in his couch cushions. Every cell in his body ached for it. "Jack, wait," he called, hurrying after her.

She paused, but didn't face him. He reached out a tentative hand and lightly touched her bare arm. She gasped, turned, and he let his hand fall away. They stood facing each other on the dark, rain-slick sidewalk. She looked ethereal in the sodium-colored light. He just looked...ghostly. A ghost of a man. The woman and the ghost watched each other warily. Silently.

"Thank you," he said at last, his voice a bare whisper.

She gave him a small, wavering smile. Skimmed the tips of her fingers over his cheek with a feather-light touch. Sighed softly. "I really have to go."

He nodded and took a step back. "Have fun," he said awkwardly, lips twisting.

"Thanks," she replied gently. "Take care."

"I will," he promised her.

Her smile flickered again, a brief brightening of the dark, before she turned and walked away from him for the second time that night. He watched her until she was in the car, then he hurried back inside.

He retrieved the vial from beneath the cushion. He stared at it a few heartbeats more before he tore through his home collecting every one he could put hands on. With a cathartic shout of rage, he threw the glass bottles into the bathroom sink and watched them shatter. Watched, too, as the poisonous ambrosia drained away. Regret pinged through him like keys struck on an out of tune piano, but he ignored it. Grimly, determinedly, he turned the tap and let water wash the basin clean.

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_Let me know what you think with a review, kind readers!_


	2. Friends, Lovers: Lost

**a/n**: For those of you who know St. Augustine/Anastasia State Park/Anastasia Island well, you'll notice I've taken some geographic liberties. It's difficult to set a story in a particular place and keep it exactly in situ - all authors need to play a bit. Also, I've changed the name of Flagler College in St. Augustine to Colben College; I didn't want the actual school stricken with bad karma from my story. :)

Since I haven't included Prentiss as a character in my AU (yet), Jackson gets to be Reid's whipping...girl...in Prentiss' place. She's the new kid, after all.

Remember, loves, the prologue goes at the end of the story, chronologically. Now we're back in proper order.

Let me know what you think, good or bad, with a review. Thank you!

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**Chapter 1: Friends, Lovers - Lost**

**I want yesterday to come back again;  
Nothing is as simple as I once knew.  
Why can't everything be the way it was  
Before the day that I lost you?  
**-Ari Hest, "Strangers Again"

**Anastasia State Park  
St. Johns County, FL**

He loved the park. It was like a second home to him. He loved it in winter, when the wind off the ocean cut straight to the bone and he had the place nearly to himself. He loved it in autumn, when the nights grew longer, colder, and the sun began to lose its menace. He loved it in summer, when the heat was thick enough to cut and the sand adhered to his skin with a layer of sweat.

Most of all he loved it in spring. The weather warmed. The birds sang. And the people came back to the park. He watched them all – families, school groups, nature clubs, couples. Especially couples.

On this warm, sunny day, one pair in particular had caught his eye. They were young, early twenties, and attractive. She had dark skin, long, wavy black hair, and big, soft brown eyes. He wasn't very tall, but he was well-built and had matinee-idol good looks, like a young almost-Paul Newman.

He watched as they played. Kissed. Bickered. The boy glowered in frustration as the girl turned away from him, her laugh floating on the breeze like a flower petal. The man smiled in anticipation and turned off the trail to wait.

He loved the park. It was like a second home, and like home, he knew it intimately – far better than two young, feckless college kids hiking its back trails. His grin was the leer of a predator, and the happy, carefree couple never saw him coming.

* * *

**Quantico, VA - Four Days Later**

"I give it five minutes," Derek Morgan said, expressive brows drawn together over chocolate brown eyes.

"Cut him some slack, handsome; I say ten," Penelope Garcia replied, swatting her friend lightly in the stomach.

"Not a chance. That kid is wound _way_ too tight, and somehow Jack just twists the springs tighter."

The seemingly mismatched pair was leaning against Morgan's desk observing Spencer Reid and Elliot Jackson, the BAU's youngest agents, as they stood together at the coffee bar. Reid was dumping sugar into his coffee, studiously ignoring his colleague, while Jackson was waiting patiently for him to hand over the dispenser.

He kept pouring, and the jar was nearly empty. They watched as Jackson made a comment, her face blooming into one of those bright, lovely smiles they knew so well. Garcia's expression turned into a protective frown, Morgan's into a narrow-eyed glare as Reid snapped something at Jackson and slammed the sugar shaker down onto the counter. She flinched back, her smile dying, and she opened her mouth to say something further, but he had already stalked off.

"He needs to take a breath," Morgan muttered.

Garcia shook her head, multi-colored curls dancing. "I didn't realize it had gotten that bad."

"I don't know what happened in Houston," he said in reference to a recent case, "but she's been extremely..._polite_ to him, and he's barely even looked at her."

"Ouch."

"What are we looking at?" Jennifer "J.J." Jareau asked as she joined them. Jackson had moved on by this time, so they were just staring at scattered sugar and lingering coffee stains.

"A tragedy," Garcia lamented.

"We're out of sugar," Morgan interjected before Garcia could share any of her half-baked theories about Reid and Jack with J.J.

"That's unfortunate," the pretty blond said, "but we've got bigger things to worry about." She indicated the files in her arms. "Briefing in five. We've got a case."

Morgan waggled his brows at Garcia. "Gotta work, baby girl. See ya later."

They all gathered in the conference room, offering good mornings and friendly jokes among themselves. The only one who stood apart from it was Reid. He sat alone at his end of the table and sipped his too-sweet coffee. Mornings were the hardest. Once he actually got his day started he could usually focus on work, blot out the cravings that controlled him, but in the morning...

He sipped. Enough sugar was sometimes an adequate substitute for the drug he lusted for so strongly. _Adequate_ wasn't the right word, maybe. How about...sugar had to substitute, at least for the time being, because even though the Dilaudid in his bag called to him like a Siren, he still didn't quite have the balls to actually shoot up inside this building. Somehow, he thought, they'd know. They would all know, and they would all look at him the way Elliot did.

She couldn't know. Well, she _could_, though around her he thought only nonsense, random quotes by Plato or Aristotle, mathematical theorems that were beyond her comprehension, or he concentrated solely on their cases. But she could still know. They all could. They were all profilers, and his behavior had certainly altered since Henkel.

That was how he divided his life now: _before_ and _after_, because the _after_ Reid was nowhere near the same person as the _before_ Reid.

"Reid," Aaron Hotchner said, interrupting the young agent's thoughts, "care to join us? J.J. was about to present the case."

He flushed, swallowed. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, my thoughts were elsewhere." As he turned his attention back to the team and the meeting, his eyes met Jack's intense, glass-green stare. Though he knew she wouldn't read him without his permission, his knee-jerk reaction was to start reciting Star Trek scripts in his head. He started with "The Cage," and he'd barely completed the first scene when she dropped his gaze and turned away. Relieved, he leaned back in his chair and tried to focus on J.J. and the case she was presenting.

"We have four victims so far," she was explaining, projecting images onto the screen as she spoke. "Emily Watson, Michael St. James, Elizabeth Woods, and John Richter. Four victims: two couples, all students at Colben College in St. Augustine, Florida."

"Couples?" Jason Gideon asked, brow furrowing as he examined the file.

"Yes," J.J. confirmed. "Both couples were discovered in shallow graves in Anastasia State Park, just outside of St. Augustine." More pictures flashed up. "In the case of Emily and Michael, he was shot, while her cause of death was asphyxiation."

"More specifically," Morgan said with a shudder of horror, "the ME says she was buried alive. There was sand found in her nose and mouth."

"But the causes of death are reversed with Elizabeth and John," Jackson said. "She was shot and he was asphyxiated. Weird."

"How long were they missing before the bodies were discovered?" Gideon asked.

"With Emily and Michael, three days. Over a week with Elizabeth and John," J.J. told him. "Now another couple has gone missing: Michelle Gonzalez and Tony Donaldson. They were last seen four days ago."

"No sign of torture or sexual assault with any of the victims," Reid noted as he read the autopsy reports and examined the pictures, "and they cover a variety races – white, black, Hispanic. There's no real rhyme or reason to this victomology besides just couples."

"The UnSub only killed one of them," Gideon speculated, looking around the table over his reading glasses. "Emily shot Michael, and the UnSub buried her alive. Vice versa with the second couple."

"Patient son of a bitch," Morgan remarked. "The first one only took three days, but the second almost twice as long. Most killers would've given up and just shot them both."

Reid shook his head. "Not this guy. It's the waiting he likes."

"He's keeping them for as long as it takes," Jackson said. "He's watching to see which one cracks first."

"Kill your lover and I'll let you go," Gideon confirmed grimly.

A small silence fell as the team considered.

"And I doubt Emily and Michael were his first. No way an UnSub develops an MO like this overnight," Gideon continued.

"Ok, everyone, wheels up in an hour," Hotch told them. "We need to get down there before the next couple turns up dead."

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_Since I'm posting this as I write, as opposed to "Endgame" where I had it all written before I posted, I'm going to keep the chapters short so you don't have to wait too long. :)_

_Toss me a review if'n ya wanna!_


	3. A Divot in the Sand

**a/n**: Thank you thank you for all your kind reviews! They really do inspire me, since I'm writing this as I go.

This chapter is really short, and mostly procedural. I'll be posting chapter 3 soon, because I have written through about chapter 7.

Keep the reviews coming, good or bad; I appreciate them so much. :D

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**Chapter 2: A Divot in the Sand**

**Saturday night, shots ring out.  
Add one to the body count.  
You come alive to see another's end.  
**-Better Than Ezra, "One More Murder"

As it turned out, they were too late. By the time the jet landed, Michelle Gonzalez and Tony Donaldson had been found in their own grave in Anastasia State Park. The team went straight there, minus J.J., who headed to the police station to start working on a press release.

"It's not a very big park," Reid said as they made their way down one of the trails to the dumpsite. "It's about four square miles, including the beach, tidal marsh, hiking trails, campgrounds, and an historic rock quarry."

"Lots of people around, too," Morgan observed. "This time of year, getting warmer...he chose a really exposed area to dump these bodies."

A local detective waved as the team approached. "You the folks from the FBI?" he called, hurrying across the sand toward them. He was tall and good-looking, with the high cheekbones and coffee-colored eyes that marked his Hispanic heritage; at the moment his normally tan face looked pale.

"Yes," Hotch said, offering his hand. "I'm Agent Hotchner, and these are Agents Morgan, Gideon, and Reid, and Dr. Jackson."

"Detective Rodriguez," he said, shaking Hotch's hand. "I'm glad you made it so quickly. We've got six dead kids now, and parents are getting really antsy."

"Michelle and Tony were students at Colben, too?" Jackson asked.

"Yep," he replied with a grim nod. "They went missing four days ago. They came out to the park to hike for the day, and they never came back. Michelle's roommate reported her missing the next night, and when we started looking into that we realized Tony was gone, too."

"Were all the victims abducted from the park?" Reid asked.

"So far," Rodriguez confirmed.

"Our UnSub obviously knows this area well," Hotch remarked, scanning the hammock forest through his dark sunglasses. "Detective, if you could point Dr. Reid and me toward the witnesses, we'll start talking to them. I'd like Agents Gideon and Morgan and Dr. Jackson to take a look at the grave."

"Sure. One of my guys can take you to them. They're pretty shook up; a couple of old ladies out here bird-watching." He gestured for a nearby officer to help Hotch, and then nodded toward the other three. "Agents, Dr. Jackson, this way."

They followed Rodriguez off the trail and under a stretch of yellow crime scene tape. The bodies had already been removed, but the shallow depression where they'd lain together was clearly visible. Morgan knelt, studying the pitiful grave through dark, narrowed eyes obscured by expensive sunglasses. "Really close to the path," he observed after a moment.

"Risky, like you said," Gideon said. He glanced over at Jackson, eyebrows raised, but she only shook her head.

She stared down at the divot in the sand a moment before turning to look back at the trail only a few steps away. "It must have been dark. All the dumpsites were so close to main areas of the park?" she asked Rodriguez.

"This is the closest one yet. The first couple was found by some kayakers over at Salt Run, the tidal marsh. It was low tide, or they wouldn't've seen 'em. The crabs had been at them pretty good." He grimaced. "The second couple was near the quarry, more out in the open, but not like this."

"He wants them to be found fast," Gideon remarked. "He's tired of laboring in obscurity."

Jackson wrinkled her slightly crooked nose. "Can you check missing persons for couples?" she asked.

"If anyone can figure out a way, Garcia can. He obviously wasn't abducting such high-profile victims before this. It's an escalation," Morgan said.

"You think Emily and Michael weren't his first victims?" Rodriguez asked.

"No, absolutely not," Gideon told him. "It's not easy abducting a couple. He abducts them, holds them only as long as he needs to, and then he dumps them in relatively public areas. He's had time to get this just right."

"The park closes at sunset," Rodriguez said. "If he dumped them at night, it would've been just campers around, not hikers or day-trippers."

"He had to've come in with a vehicle," Morgan remarked. "Could he have brought them in before dark, then waited until after the park closed to dump the bodies?"

"It's possible. They don't kick people out, really. But this location is still pretty far from the areas where vehicles are allowed."

"Carried them, you think?" Jackson said. "One at a time, along the trail?"

Rodriguez shrugged. "None of the dumpsites have been particularly close to parking areas. Maybe that's why they're so exposed: he couldn't carry them any further into the woods."

"Clearly we're dealing with a big man, someone physically fit. Morgan, grab Hotch. I want you two at the autopsy. Tell the ME to look for needle marks."

"Needle marks?" Morgan said. "You think he drugged them?"

"He's not overpowering them physically; there're no signs of any physical damage on any of the victims. He has to be subduing them somehow.

"Jack, go with Reid back to the station. Start looking at victomology; we need to know anything that connects these kids, besides just the college."

She looked briefly uncomfortable, but after a moment she nodded. "It would be nice to know if he's choosing victims ahead of time, or if he just picks likely-looking couples from the crowds at the park."

"Exactly. I'll meet you there in an hour." He turned back to the scene, his attention instantly absorbed as though he were alone on the sparse stretch of sandy ground.

Morgan and Jackson set off across the scrub, and Morgan cast a side-long glance in her direction. "Don't let the kid get to you," he told her quietly.

She looked up, frowning a little. "It's fine. I mean, it's _not_, but I can handle it."

"Ok," he replied in a deceptively mild voice. "Reid, Hotch!" he called as they approached. "We got some new marching orders."

Hotch turned, brow raised. "You and I should head to the morgue," he said. "Reid and E.J. need to start working on victimology."

"Which one of us is the mind reader around here?" Jackson muttered.

Hotch's mouth lifted in a brief smile. "Gideon radioed. Let's head out."

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_Like I said, short, and all about the case. Please review if you've stopped by. :D_


	4. At Least You Still Care

**a/n:** Back again quickly, like I promised. :) We're back to the angsting, with a smidge of procedural.

Thanks as always to **paper creations** for your kind review! I love reading them; they make me smile big. :D (like that, sorta, only I have a nose)

I do accept anonymous reviews, so all are welcome to give me feedback, positive or negative. Thank you!

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**Chapter 3: At Least You Still Care**

**Now, retreating from the light;**  
**I love it when we fight.  
It makes me think  
At least you still care.**  
-Better Than Ezra, "Live Again"

Reid was sweating. It was a warm day, but not hot. In the shade, with a breeze off the sea, it was actually quite pleasant. But he was still sweating the cold, stinking sweat of an addict, jonesing. He rolled up the sleeves on his long-sleeved shirt (it was still cool up in Virginia, where he'd gotten dressed) and loosened his narrow tie just a fraction. It was enough. Jackson cast him an odd look from the seat beside him.

"You ok?" she asked lightly.

"I'm fine," he replied shortly. He would curse Hotch for sticking them together again if he had the leftover mental capacity, but he was too busy working through the Chayes-McKellar-Winn theorem in his head. It wasn't that complicated per se, but he was trying to be thorough. He patted his bag, noting the familiar, comfortable bulge of his kit. Maybe at the station...

"If I were him," Jackson suddenly said, barging into Reid's train of thought, "I would watch them first. I'd want to find a couple with fault lines I could exploit."

"Why's that?" he asked, unconsciously drumming his fingers against the lump in his bag.

"They'd be more likely to accept his ultimatum, don't you think? If you're already having issues with your partner, and then you're both kidnapped and offered the choice of killing or being killed..." She trailed off, looking over at him with raised eyebrows.

"I think it would be more of a thrill to watch a healthy, happy couple fall apart rather than one that already has issues."

"Hhmm," she replied mildly. "Maybe so."

"You can just say you disagree, Jack," he snapped. "You don't have to humor me." Fuck it was hot! Hadn't anyone ever heard of air conditioning around here? He tugged at his collar and didn't bother listening to what she was saying.

"I don't necessarily disagree. You could be right." She'd been dealing with his attitude for so long now that it barely fazed her anymore. Still, she was relieved when the squad car pulled up in front of the St. Augustine police station and they were released from its claustrophobic interior.

"Go find J.J.," he mumbled, hurrying towards the men's room. "I'll be right there."

Jackson watched him go with a bemused little frown before seeking out the team's media liaison. "J.J.," she said when she spotted the bright blond head among the milling cops, "where are we set up?"

"Over here," she said, leading the other agent to a space in the back of the main squad room. It had a folding table, a few standard-issue police department chairs, and an evidence board with several pictures and a large area map already on display. "Where's Reid? I thought he was with you."

"He had to make a pit stop."

"Probably not a bad idea," J.J. said. "We shouldn't get too comfortable here; we need to head over to the college pretty quickly to start talking to the victims' friends."

Jackson took a quick glance through the files J.J. had gathered and nodded agreement. "Good thinking. It's not far, is it? Can we just walk?"

"Just a few blocks. Still worried about our carbon footprint?"

The dark-haired agent grinned at her fairer colleague. "That, and I want to stop at some of these places on the list. It seems like Colben kids hang out at only a few bars, coffee shops, bookstores - and they're all between here and campus. We can hit them on the way."

"Hey, J.J.," Reid said as he appeared in the doorway. "What are we hitting on the way where?"

He was no longer sweating, Jackson noticed. The lines etched on his face had smoothed away. He looked relaxed, almost happy. It worried the hell out of her. "We were going to walk over to the school," she explained. "It's probably quicker than driving; parking in this town is sort of a nightmare."

"We have FBI plates," he said blithely. "It's not like we'll get towed."

"Do you have some aversion to walking?" she asked, feeling prickly.

"Do you have some aversion to _driving_?" he countered.

"It seems silly. It's so close you could practically get in one door of that monster SUV we drag around, get out the other side, and be there."

"I guess color me silly, then, because I prefer air conditioned comfort to footing it in the heat."

"It's _warm_ out there, Spencer, not _hot_. Have you thought about losing the sweater vest? This is Florida, not a Mensa meeting in Vermont," she retorted in a voice so dripping with sarcasm it bordered on outright derision. What had she been thinking earlier about his attitude not fazing her anymore? Clearly she'd been kidding herself.

"Whoa, hey," J.J. cut in before Reid could spit out the rejoinder she could see on his rapidly reddening face. "Calm down, guys. Reid, Jack mentioned stopping at some of the local hangouts on the way over, so we thought walking would be more convenient. If you're that set against it, we'll just drive and canvass the other places later."

"No," he said after a moment, conceding with ill grace, "we'll walk it. Since the other places are on the way."

"Thank you," Jackson bit out.

"Anytime," he replied churlishly.

J.J. rolled her eyes and followed them from the room.

* * *

At the St. Johns County morgue, Hotch and Morgan listened to Dr. Scheiner, the M.E., give his conclusions in a cold, dispassionate voice. Tony had been shot, Michelle buried alive. As Gideon had suggested, there were needle marks on both victims. Michelle had two. There were no signs of sexual or physical abuse on either victim. Strangely, there were also no defensive wounds beyond what one might sustain trying to escape from a concrete cell.

"Cinderblocks, to be specific," Scheiner said. "There are traces of the powder on both victims' hands and under their nails. Same with the other four."

"But none of these victims fought back," Hotch said. "They didn't physically confront the UnSub or each other at any point."

"If I knew my girlfriend had a gun, and she'd been given the choice to kill me or die, it might be the only thing that would ever bring me to hit a woman," Morgan remarked.

"She shot him five times. He probably didn't have a chance to take a swing," Hotch said, studying the wound pattern on Tony's body.

"They found sand in her mouth and nose, just like with the earlier victims. You didn't see the grave, Hotch, but there's no way that girl was buried alive in there. It was just a little depression in the ground with some sand thrown on top."

"No defensive wounds," Hotch mused. "Tell me, Morgan, if you were buried alive, wouldn't you fight?"

"Hell yeah!" He paused a thoughtful moment, then, "Two needle marks..." He flipped open the file in his hand and studied it carefully, then moved on to the next one. "He's drugging them before he buries them," he said. "All the victims who were buried had two needle marks; the gunshot victims just had one."

Hotch considered, rubbing the back of his neck pensively as his mind worked. "He picks his victims, either ahead of time or on the day of, then he finds a quiet place in the park to hole up and wait."

"He lures one away somehow, or maybe just waits until they separate for whatever reason, then he drugs one of them."

"When the other one comes to investigate, he sticks him or her, too."

"Now we just have to figure out how he gets two full-sized, unconscious adults from wherever he's drugged them to his car without being seen."

"I'm not as worried about that as I am about whether or not he stalks his victims ahead of time. He could be an employee at the college, or maybe at the park..." Hotch trailed off contemplatively. "Let's head back to the station and see if Reid and E.J. have come up with anything on victimology. I think figuring out how he chooses these kids might be the key we need to stopping him."

* * *

_Some of you may have noticed (or not) that I named the M.E. after the original, grumpy-old-man M.E. from _Homicide: Life on the Street_. I've been re-watching the reruns lately, and I'm remembering how much I love that show._

_To read more about Morgan's fear of being buried alive, check out my one-shot "Your Turn."_

_In other news, I changed the quote I used in Chapter 2 and the Prologue. With the exception of the Prologue and Chap. 1, I'm going to be using BTE quotes from now on. Kevin Griffin is an amazing song writer, and they have an extensive catalogue to choose from.  
_

_Drop me a review if you don't mind! I love to hear your thoughts. :D  
_

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	5. What Spencer Said

**a/n**: I think maybe I'm publishing too fast; not giving people time to review. At least I hope that's why... ;)

Longest chapter thus far, and I wanted to go ahead and get it out there. I hope all you Spencer fans don't think I'm making him all OOC. Someone who has an addiction like his **is** OOC; that's sorta the point.

Thanks for reading!

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**Chapter 4: What Spencer Said**

**I understand that you are going through a hard time,  
But what you need to recognize I'm in one, too.  
You say that maybe we should take some time apart,  
But you go your way;  
I'll get by, and you'll go get high.  
You just see if I mind!  
**-Better Than Ezra, "Get You In"

The sweats had stopped thanks to his break in the men's room, but now Reid was exhausted. The day was only half over, but he felt like he'd run a marathon. Things had gotten bad in Houston, the worst yet, and it was the first time he'd used while working. Since then, the temporary serenity and euphoria brought on by the Dilaudid had become necessary to making it through his day. The downside, of course, was the constant cycle between highs and lows. It wore him out.

He trailed after J.J. and Jack like a droopy puppy, sulking behind his dark glasses and avoiding eye contact with either of them. He watched as the two women exchanged looks, no doubt communicating in that silent language all women were mysteriously gifted with at birth. For all his brain power, girl code was one language to which he was not privy.

After his screw up in Houston - scaring that poor woman at the shelter half to death, reading Jack the riot act when she'd called him on it - he decided it was probably better to hang back and let them do the talking. Though the employees at the various bookstores and bars remembered the victims, they had little to offer in the way of enlightenment.

As they left yet another café none the wiser, Jackson let out a frustrated sigh. "This seems to be a bust."

"Not necessarily," Reid countered. "We know our victims were active in the social scene. It means the UnSub wasn't limited to picking them out at the school or the park."

It wasn't that she minded the disagreement - on the contrary, it helped her think, get a clear picture; _learn_. What made the vein in her temple twitch was the tone he used. It was new, and it made her want to strangle him a little. "Good point," she said in a carefully controlled voice. "The fact that these kids were so visible - the type who would be missed quickly - shows his continued escalation."

"So you think he's choosing these particular victims _because_ they're popular, not in spite of it?" J.J. asked.

"In part," Jackson replied with a slow, thoughtful nod. "I suspect there's more to it, but their visibility is a component. What do you think, Reid?"

He shrugged. Though the sunglasses obscured his eyes, she knew he wasn't really paying attention. "It's plausible," he said at last, sounding largely uninterested.

Jackson and J.J. shared another of those damn_ looks_ before the dark-haired woman turned away in exasperation. "Fine," she muttered under her breath, "be that way."

"Let's go talk to Michelle's roommate," J.J. suggested. "She's the one who reported her missing."

Jackson opened her mouth to agree when J.J.'s phone rang. As she listened to J.J.'s end of the conversation, her heart sank. The media liaison hung up and shook her head. "That was Hotch. He wants you guys to continue without me. Gideon says we're ready for a press conference."

Jackson glanced at Reid, smiled. "No problem. Boy genius and I can handle it, can't we?"

He blinked at the two women a moment before letting out a little snort and stomping away.

They watched him go, and Jackson turned to J.J. with a rueful tilt to her lips. "Is that a _yes_ or a _no_?"

"Are you sure you'll be ok?" J.J. asked quietly, her pretty face creased in concern.

"Yeah, it's fine." She flicked her fingers, waving it away. "Hotch obviously wants us together for a reason, so I just...deal."

"Does he know how bad it's gotten?"

Jackson fidgeted. Glanced down the sidewalk at Reid. Back at J.J. "No," she finally admitted.

"Tell him, Jack. I mean it."

"Are you coming or what?" Reid yelled from half a block away.

"Duty calls," she said to J.J., rolling her eyes. "See you later."

"Good luck," she replied with a little grimace.

"Thanks," Jackson said, shooting Reid an apprehensive glance. "I think I'll need it." Casting J.J. a quick wave, she hurried to join the other agent. "Ok, ok, I'm coming. Keep your pants on."

"I wasn't really planning--"

"An expression, Spencer. What are you, a Vulcan?"

His face scrunched, and he hurried to follow her as she rushed past. "I'm not quite that literal," he griped.

She eyed him as he fell in beside her. He had his hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. It was a classic defensive pose, and she decided to steer clear. "Garcia sent the roommate's class schedule," she said, moving the conversation into less shark-infested waters. She consulted her BlackBerry a moment. "She's in Fundamentals of Design right now, assuming she went to class at all. What do you think, check the class or their room first?"

"Room," he answered shortly. "She probably skipped."

"Right-o. She lives in Colben Hall, the main building. Room 217."

* * *

Back at the station the rest of the team was busy assembling the profile. Gideon had returned from the crime scene to consult with Hotch and Morgan, and they were awaiting Reid and Jackson's report from the school before presenting it to the locals.

"These kids were well known," J.J. was saying. "Everyone we talked to knew their faces, names, everything."

"He's choosing popular couples who are, on the surface at least, very happy," Morgan said, scribbling on the dry erase board as he spoke.

"On the surface," Gideon repeated thoughtfully. "That might be the key. We'll have a better idea once Reid and Jack talk to the roommate."

"You're thinking he stalked them long enough to see the chinks in their relationships?" Hotch said.

"Yes. He's patient, but not so patient he's willing to wait for a couple who might not accept his ultimatum."

Morgan tapped the dry erase marker against the table as he considered. "He's young and fit enough to carry these kids fairly long distances, but he's old enough to wait them out. Plus he's obviously had time to get everything just right."

"He's someone who blends in," Hotch said. "A maintenance man or, if he works at the park, a ranger or volunteer."

"He could be both," Gideon remarked. "He works at the school, and he volunteers at the park in his free time."

Morgan jotted that down on the board. "He obviously has a van or closed-bed truck, something he can transport them in."

"This guy is smart," Gideon mused, rubbing his hands as he studied the evidence board. "And he's not interested in their physical suffering. It's the psychological anguish he enjoys."

"Why doesn't he let the other one go?" J.J. asked. "If he enjoys their emotional pain so much, surely living with the memory of killing your lover would be the ultimate torture."

"I seriously doubt he wears a mask at any point, and he's too careful to leave witnesses," Hotch pointed out.

"It's possible he did, though," Gideon said. "Has Garcia had any luck with those missing persons reports?" he asked Morgan.

"I haven't heard from her," he answered. "She said she'd call as soon as she found something."

"If he originally let one go, the crimes probably went unreported. That would be part of the deal," Hotch said. "Morgan, ask Garcia to look at school records - any students who abruptly dropped out mid-semester. Look for average students, not the sports stars or potential valedictorians."

The good-looking black man nodded and turned away to make the call. As he faced the squad room he caught sight of a familiar lanky figure moving their way. "Here's Reid," he said over his shoulder, "but Jack's not with him."

"Oh no," J.J. murmured.

"What?" Hotch asked, dark brows drawing together over deep, penetrating brown eyes.

J.J. sighed, shook her head. "They were..." She hesitated, tried again. "Reid was kind of being a jerk, and I could tell Jack was getting frustrated."

"You don't think he killed her and stashed the body, do you?" Morgan asked with the flash of a smile.

Hotch glared, instantly quelling the taller man's mirth. Suitably chastened, he bent his head and started dialing Garcia. "I had hoped E.J. would come to me if Reid's behavior became more than she could handle," the team's leader said.

"I told her to talk to you. She said she was dealing with it," J.J. explained.

"Let's just ask Reid, shall we?" Gideon suggested with a thin, sphinx-like curve to his mouth.

The young man in question popped his head into the room to find the entire team staring at him. His face scrunched. "What?" he asked, sliding hands into his pockets.

"Where's Jack?" Gideon asked gently.

"Oh," Reid replied, shrugging, expression going smooth. "I just assumed she came back here."

"You assumed?" Hotch demanded as the lines of disapproval drawn on his well-made face deepened.

"I didn't ask," Reid replied easily. "She had a hissy fit and stormed off. I figured she'd come back here to pout."

"What did you say to her?" J.J. asked, aghast.

"Um." He suddenly became engrossed in the images on the evidence board.

"Spencer," Gideon prompted.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "I criticized her ability to question witnesses."

"Criticism has never bothered her before. She knows she's not a trained profiler, and she likes the opportunity to learn," Hotch said in that flat, stern voice all his agents had learned to fear.

Reid fidgeted. "Um. It was sort of...strident...criticism? In front of the witness...?"

"You did _what_?" Hotch barked as J.J. threw up her hands in exasperation and Gideon rubbed his short, graying hair.

"Look," Reid defended, "Michelle's roommate was holding out. I knew she wasn't telling the whole truth, but Jack wouldn't read her."

"What did you say, Spencer?" Gideon asked, brows raised.

"I told her..." He squirmed as it suddenly hit him how incredibly inappropriate he'd been. He let out a little breath. "I said if she refused to use her ability to help us, then she wasn't of any use to this team."

Silence fell, hard and echoing.

"Morgan," Hotch said, not taking his fierce, disappointed gaze off his youngest agent, "go find her. Spencer, you and I will talk later. Right now we're going to focus on this case, and you're going to remember that this is a _team_. No one is more valuable than anyone else."

Reid, flooded with shame and humiliation, nodded slowly. Morgan hung up from his conversation with Garcia - after listening to a few choice words about Reid's behavior - and quickly left to find their wayward colleague.

* * *

_Wow. Stoned Spencer is a stinker._

_Let me know your thoughts and/or opinions with a review, kind readers!  
_


	6. Brooding on It

**a/n**: Hello again! Just a quick note to avoid any possible confusion that might occur...

I clearly reference 2x12 "Profiler, Profiled" here. Though Morgan and Jack didn't really mesh well at first (see my story "Endgame"), I sorta have this idea that after Derek's ordeal in Chicago, she's the one who wouldn't leave him alone. That's pretty much her way; it's why Reid's being such a pain.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Brooding on It**

**I'm the victim of another's war.  
Still the words you said to me  
Come ringing in your silent symphony.**  
-Better Than Ezra, "Burned"

Elliot Jackson was fuming. Spencer Reid, possibly her best friend, had lost his damn mind. He'd been abducted four months ago, and watching him go through the torture Henkel had inflicted had broken her heart. As tragic as it was, that was no excuse for his current ridiculousness.

He'd been shaky on his first case. They'd all kept constant vigil, ready to step in if he needed them. But, apart from a brief conversation with Morgan, he kept to himself. They thought maybe he'd come back ok. Different, of course, but still pretty much the Spencer Reid they all knew and loved.

Time passed. Days turned into a week, weeks into a month. Time passed, and Jackson watched him fade. Her perceptive glass-green gaze followed his every movement. She noticed - as, surely, did the whole team - how he carefully, obsessively avoided getting close enough to touch her, even an accidental brush of arm against arm. Jackson stared at him across the conference room table every morning, and the man who stared back out of Spencer Reid's familiar, beloved deep-set hazel eyes was a stranger to her.

She wanted a moment alone with him, just a quiet second where she could remind him of the closeness they'd begun to share as the two youngest members of the team, as the Freaks. She wanted to see the smile brighten his face, hear his nervous laughter - or, better, the _real_ laugh that so few were privileged to hear. She wanted to run her fingertip between his brows and smooth away the worry line that had become a permanent feature there.

She knew what kind of toll such an experience could take. She'd been through something similar early in her career with the Agency. He didn't have to talk. He didn't have to let her read him. She just wanted to know he was ok, or at least that he would be.

When Hotch forced them together as he'd been wont to do since that first case back in Detroit (though until Henkel it hadn't been _forced_ - they'd worked well together, and always enjoyed it), Reid was sullen, withdrawn. He snapped at her, made snide comments when he disagreed with her, and generally made an ass of himself. Now, today...he knew her rule, he knew how she worked, and yet he'd said...

She was fed up, practically speechless with hurt and fury. That was how Morgan found her, angry and brooding on it, in a Starbucks down the block from the St. Augustine police station.

"Hey, pint size; we were missing you," he said by way of greeting.

She gave her BlackBerry a meaningful glance. "Not so much. No missed calls."

He frowned. Growing up with two sisters had taught him a thing or two about dealing with pissed off women. It was why Hotch had sent him to find her. He gestured to the small cup on the table by her elbow. "What ya drinkin'? I'm buyin'."

"Upside down doppio con panna," she replied shortly.

He blinked. "Upside down whatta con whatta? You can't just drink coffee?"

She softened enough to look up at him, her lips twitching just a little. "It's two shots of espresso on whipped cream, but I think I've reached my limit of caffeine-laced fat today. Just some water would be fine."

He returned shortly with a Venti coffee and an ice water. Taking the chair next to hers, he sipped contemplatively. "So," he began at last, "what's crawled up Reid's ass, huh?"

She snorted. "Damn profilers. You boys don't miss a trick."

He shrugged, an easy grin unfurling across his handsome, chiseled features. "It's why I'm rollin' in honeys."

"You did _not_ just say that."

He wagged his brows at her and took another sip of coffee. As he lowered the cup, his face took on a somber cast. "Seriously, Jack, I know the kid's been bein' a dick to you lately. We've all seen it. What he did today was completely out of line. You know none of us think that. Hell, _he_ doesn't even think that."

"Hmm. So he told you." She looked down, fiddled with the straw in her cup of water. "He's been through a lot."

"Yeah. That doesn't give him license to disrespect you."

Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "I know that, Derek. But, honestly, can you blame him? He went through hell and we all watched. If it were you, would you want me anywhere near you? Would you want me in your head, seeing all that pain and insecurity? I sure as hell wouldn't."

He fell back in his chair as though the string of furious words from the petite brunette had been paired with physical blows from someone much larger. He hadn't really thought about why Reid was acting like he was beyond the obvious residual trauma from his ordeal. Morgan considered, remembering how she'd helped him after all that shit went down in Chicago. The kid clearly didn't have his head on straight. "You wouldn't look, though," he finally said.

"No," she asserted, shaking her head vehemently, "not if I could help it. Spencer knows that. Derek, he's deliberately hiding something from me, something big. I'm really scared to find out what it might be."

Morgan set his cup down on the table. His hands were shaking. He cared about that damn kid, and if he were in some sort of trouble... "You two were close, right? Before."

"Yes," she said softly, regret shading her voice. "Before...we were."

He didn't inquire about the nature of that closeness, though he and Garcia had debated it many times - were the team's youngest members secret lovers? Garcia, the romantic, said yes, but Morgan leaned toward no. He cleared his throat, focusing his attention back on Jackson. "You don't think he'd talk to you, though, if he had the chance?"

"I honestly don't know. Maybe?"

"Have you discussed any of this with Gideon?"

Her gaze drifted away to the window. People, tourists and students, streamed past in a colorful parade. "I could try." She looked back at him, her normally clear green eyes opaque with secrets. "Gideon and I have a history, as you know. It makes it hard to talk to him sometimes."

"You know he's noticed. Reid's like a son to him. He'll listen, and he'll help if he can - in his way."

"Like he helped you in Chicago?" It was an unfair question, and she knew it. Morgan had gone to Gideon with problems in the past, it's just that after revealing such painful secrets about himself, he hadn't been able to face any of his fellow team members. Jackson, stubborn as she was, had simply refused to leave him alone.

"Whoa," he was saying, hands raised, "you know who helped me after all that. It's why I'm here now."

The corner of her mouth lifted a little. "And here I thought it was because Hotch made you come, son of a single mom, brother of two sisters."

He rolled his eyes. "Hotch is scared of women. It's a fact. I'll never know how he landed Haley."

"Dimples," she replied, reaching over to tap Morgan on his cheek. "That's the real reason you're rollin' in honeys."

He grinned, flashing said dimples. "If you and the kid can't work things out, I'll get rid of all of 'em and pledge my undying devotion to you."

"Didn't you already promise Garcia the same thing?"

"Probably, but she didn't believe me."

"Smart woman," she told him with a smirk. Her smile gradually faded, and a silence fell between them. Jackson shifted in her chair. Cleared her throat. "Derek, about Reid and I..."

"It's none of my business."

"I know you and Garcia talk about it."

"Yeah, but we talk about a lot of things."

She glanced away, then back. "We were only ever just friends. It was never...romantic."

He raised a brow at her. "You just won me five bucks."

"I guess you owe me two fifty," she replied, full mouth curving.

Morgan sighed and ran a large, long-fingered hand over his smooth head. "You know he didn't mean it, Jack," he repeated softly. "Special ability or not, you're a great asset to this team. We all believe that."

"Thank you," she replied in a small, quiet voice. "I mostly believe that's true, but it's still good to hear sometimes."

"Think you're ready to head back now?"

"I guess I can't pout forever, can I? We have an UnSub to find."

He grinned and got to his feet. Held out his hand for her. "Come on, pint size. Let's get back to it."

* * *

_Here's an example of changing St. Augustine's geography. There's no Starbucks near the police station, and I apologize for actually mentioning it by name...but Jack wanted a doppio con panna, and I've never ordered one anywhere but at Starbucks. (though I'm sure you can get them anywhere...just not necessarily by the fancy name...)_

_Some reviews would be lovely, dear readers! Thank you for stopping by. :)  
_


	7. The Man in the Bathroom

**a/n**: Hmm, no reviews for the last chapter. Ok, no worries. It was the first chapter I wrote for this story, and I almost cut it out, but I liked the moment between Morgan and Jack. Plus, a few things were said that'll be important later. Let's see if y'all like this one better. ;)

So I chose the name for this chapter, then I realized it sounded a little...strange...but it was too late. I'd already named it. Like a boat, renaming a chapter is bad luck.

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Man in the Bathroom**

**So long, I never had experienced this bliss.  
So how could I resist?  
And I'm fine;  
A little light-headed.  
Does that worry you?  
Didn't mean to worry you.  
**-Better Than Ezra, "Live Again"

Hotch had paired them yet again. Reid knew it was to test him: could he manage to work with Jack for more than two minutes without biting her head off? Though he felt genuinely bad about what he'd said to her earlier, he wasn't sure he could pass Hotch's test in his current state.

Upon Jack and Morgan's return to the station, the two youngest agents had been sent to the park to scout dumpsites. They'd spoken little, but every time he looked at her he felt something squirm inside. She had every right to tell him to go to hell, but she hadn't; she was coolly professional, distant. Not Jack, in other words. Maybe he should apologize? Would that make things better, or worse? He rubbed the back of his neck and wished he were anywhere else.

They passed a men's room and he hesitated. If he used, would she know? He had been hiding his thoughts from her effectively since Henkel, but she was observant beyond her ability. She would notice a change, but she probably wouldn't ask. Operation Alienate Jack had been succeeding remarkably well, considering her incredible tenacity, and he'd pretty much put the last nail in their relationship's coffin with his idiocy earlier today.

"Hey, Jack, go on without me," he called to her. He gestured to the restroom when she turned, a question forming on her lips. "I'll catch up."

"I'll wait," she said, leaning against the wall to add action to assertion.

He ground his teeth. The muscles in his jaw danced noticeably, but as predicted, she didn't comment on his sudden agitation. "No need," he assured her. "I'll only be a minute."

She gave him a Look. "Just go pee, Spencer. I'll wait."

Realizing he was making too much out of it, he shrugged and stepped through the swinging door. As it closed behind him he let out a long sigh, briefly closing his eyes in anticipation. He checked to make sure the stalls were empty before fishing the kit from his brown messenger bag. Locked himself into a stall. _Almost, so close._ Filled the needle. _Seconds away, yes, please... _Inserted it into his arm, depressed the plunger, and...

Bliss. Warm, cotton-candy cloud of pure, sweet, honey-coated bliss.

Sighing softly, he leaned his head against the wall and floated.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there when he heard the squeak-and-swish of the outer door. Hastily he flushed the unused toilet and stowed the kit back in his bag. He emerged from the stall and began washing his hands.

Reid watched his reflection in the mirror above the sinks with fascination. It was wavering, dancing, doubling. He smiled and reached out to touch the face in the mirror, but then he pulled his hand back quickly when his fingers encountered cold glass. He stared down at his open palm, splayed fingers, in consternation. The loops and whorls formed by his skin were mesmerizing, and he was wondering if Jack could read palms _and_ minds when the man attacked.

Reid had forgotten the man was even there. He'd been standing at the urinal, his back to the young agent, and Reid had barely registered his presence. Now, as he sank to the bathroom floor, his brain going even fuzzier, he wondered what the fuck just happened.

Outside, Jackson checked her watch yet again. Shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Fidgeted. Maybe this was why he hadn't wanted her to wait - he knew he'd be a while. Whatever. She wasn't leaving him alone.

She was debating calling him when the door opened and the man who'd entered a few minutes before burst through it. "Hey, lady!" he called. "There's a guy passed out in here. My phone battery's dead. Call an ambulance!"

Her green eyes widened, and she flashed her badge by rote, on instinct. "We're FBI agents," she told him, hurrying past and into the bathroom. She stopped short at the sight of Spencer laid out on the tile; he was bleeding from the head, and his skin was ashen. She tossed her phone to the stranger. "Call 911. Tell them a Federal Agent needs an ambulance _now_."

Jackson knelt beside her partner and checked his pulse. Sluggish, but strong. She was reaching to check his pupils when a warming flashed, _screamed_ into her mind. It wasn't from Reid; he was out cold. She whipped around, realizing with rapidly-dawning horror that the man behind her hadn't yet called 911. _The park, shit, the park, college-age couples abducted _from the park_!!_

The man held a truncheon in his hand, and despite her quick reflexes and thorough training, Jackson knew she was in Deep Shit. Her hand flew to her weapon, but he was faster. The blow connected to her temple, and she saw stars. The stars set; blackness reigned.

* * *

"Someone's gotta talk to him, Hotch," Morgan said. "He's out of control."

"I know that, Morgan," Hotch replied. "I'm planning to have a sit down with him when we get back to Virginia."

"What're we supposed to do in the meantime?" he asked, hands on hips and handsome face twisted into a scowl.

Hotch sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. This case was difficult enough without having to deal with Reid's drama. He knew the young man had been through a terrible ordeal, but he had no right to take anything out on E.J. To be honest, Reid's attitude toward their newest agent had taken the team leader by surprise; they'd seemed close before Henkel, and Hotch had thought Reid would confide in her, not lash out at her.

So much for his amazing profiling skills.

"In the meantime we're going to focus on finding this UnSub before he chooses another couple," he finally said.

Morgan took a few deep breaths through his nose, trying to get it together. "Yeah, ok. Alright."

"She's an adult, Morgan; she can handle Reid," Hotch reminded the other agent.

"You didn't see the look on her face..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "You're right. I'm gonna call Garcia, see if she has anything on those missing persons."

"Good. I'll check in with E.J. to find out how they're doing at the park."

White teeth flashed in a dark face as Morgan smiled. "Uh huh. She's an _adult_, remember?"

Hotch pinned him with a deliberately neutral look. Without a word, he hit the speed dial key for Jackson's cell and listened to her ringback music. He briefly fought the urge to hum along to a familiar, catchy Van Morrison tune, but as the selection looped through a second time, he began to frown. "She's not answering."

"Huh. Let me try Reid," Morgan said. He raised the silver Razr to his ear and listened to the ringing. His face creased. "Nothing."

Hotch's brow furrowed as the first inkling of alarm began to trickle down his spine. "Call Garcia. I want to know what cell coverage is like in that park, and find out if she can locate their phones."

He was making the call when J.J. stepped around the corner. "Gideon wants to know if either of you have heard from Reid or Jack," she said. "They've been gone awhile, and he's anxious to know if they've found anything."

Hotch checked his watch, and the furrowing deepened. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late. We just tried to call them and got no answer. Morgan's on the line with Garcia now."

J.J.'s dark blue eyes widened in apprehension. "You don't think they're fighting again, do you? Not after what happened...Reid's not _that_ messed up, is he?"

"I hope not," Hotch murmured.

"Are you sure, baby girl?" Morgan asked, the anxiety in his voice slicing through Hotch and J.J.'s quiet conversation like a guillotine. "Check again." A pause, and they could hear Garcia's voice through the phone. "Ok, I'm putting you on speaker. Hotch and J.J. are here."

"Hotch, J.J.," Garcia said, sounding frazzled and a little frantic. "The cell coverage in that park is perfect. It's not a big place, and there are towers everywhere. There shouldn't be any dead zones."

"Garcia, baby, gimme some good news," Morgan pleaded.

There was a deafening silence from Quantico. "I don't...I...there's no signal," she nearly whimpered.

"What do you mean, Garcia?" Hotch asked. "You just said the coverage is perfect."

"No!" she almost wailed. "I mean there's no signal from their phones, no GPS. That means both phones are turned off."

The agents shared a three-way glance as their trepidation mounted. "There's no way," Morgan said. "Even if the kid flipped out, Jack would keep her phone on. She'd stay in touch. She had it right beside her in that coffee shop."

Hotch shifted restlessly. "J.J., go get Gideon and Detective Rodriguez. We need to get over there _now_, and I think we're going to need search teams."

"Hotch! Hotch, you don't think...I mean, the guy didn't...Jack and Reid..." Garcia stuttered, for once at a complete loss for words. "They're ok, right?" she finally gasped.

"I don't know, Garcia," he said quietly. "I hope so."

"Call me the second you find out anything, good or bad," she instructed. "I'll keep the GPS tracker up, so I'll know if one of their phones comes back on."

"Thanks, baby girl," Morgan said. "We'll be in touch soon." He snapped the phone closed with a grimace. "If that kid's gotten himself kidnapped again, I'm gonna kill him."

"Get in line," J.J. bit out.

* * *

_Alright, so, hydromorphone doesn't really cause hallucinations like the ones I described - at least, not usually - but I liked the imagery. Heroine in high enough doses, with the right stimulus, can cause hallucinations, so I figured...why the heck not?_

_I'd love some reviews, dear readers. :)  
_


	8. Alone, Together

**a/n**: I only have another chapter or two of this written atm, and I've hit a bit of writer's block on it. Looking for some relief, I started something new: "Still Right Here," a story inspired by Sienna and Kavi's tv ep title prompts. Check it out!

That said, if you're enjoying "Reckoning," now's the time to toss me a review or two. :) My muse is sputtering. Writer's block is overcome more easily when one knows someone is reading and enjoying. :)

In a side note, apparently my email notifications aren't working; I'm not receiving notice for reviews, story updates, anything. Anyone else having that problem?? Annoying.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Alone, Together**

**How can you be so warm?  
How can you know what I feel?  
Well, it's the way you move your hands,  
And it's the way you understand**...  
-Better Than Ezra, "In the Blood"

Reid came to first. He raised a hand to his aching head, probing carefully. A lump had formed, but he'd stopped bleeding. Frowning, he began to take stock. Jackson was lying near him, still out. They were in a six by ten cinderblock cell with a concrete floor and a vague light source overhead. Two buckets set in one corner. A heavy, metallic door. Sighing in dismay, he crawled over to her and checked Jackson's pulse, patted her cheek gently. "Wake up, Jack," he told her. "I need you to open your eyes."

"Mmm," she murmured, face scrunching in pain as consciousness began to return. Her eyelids fluttered. She reached up to push his hand away. "Don't, please; my own thoughts are as much as my head can handle at the moment."

He pulled his fingers off her skin as though she'd burned him. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

She sat up gingerly. Pressed gentle fingers against the darkening bruise at her temple. Tenderly brushed his hair back to examine his own wound. "You ok?"

"Yeah," he replied shortly. "Head hurts, but I'll be fine."

She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "How fucked do you think we are?"

He looked around the bleak dungeon. "_Very_ to _extremely_."

"Looks that way," she agreed with a trace of her old humor.

The door swished open, and the man from the bathroom filled the entry. Reid got to his feet and reached down to help Jack stand with him. She felt a bit wobbly, but relatively ok.

"Welcome," the man said. His voice was stark, bleak, nothing like the voice she remembered from before. Some mind reader, fooled so completely...

"You should consider letting us go," Reid was saying. "We're Federal Agents, members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Our team will be looking for us, and they will find us. They're the best in the world."

He flashed white, white teeth. "They can look. They won t find."

Jackson stirred. She wasn't much in the mood to stand here and listen to this man gloat. "You think I'm going to kill him?" she asked, stepping away from Reid as though he were carrying Plague. "That's your thing, right? Driving couples to kill each other, watching the erosion? It's what gets you high, gets you _off_," she said, her tone sarcastic, dismissive. Reid wondered, briefly, in the part of his mind that had the energy to wonder, if she were making a huge mistake.

"Yes," the man answered simply.

Her laugh was bitter enough to corrode iron, and Reid flinched back from it. "You're in for a nasty surprise." She gestured toward the other agent, her normally serene features twisted into something almost frightening by stark lines of disdain. "He and I aren't a couple. There's no desperate love, no secret story, no hidden affair. We're not even really friends." These last words left her mouth like bullets straight into his chest. He wanted to crumple from the impact, but he stayed upright, tried to look defiant.

The man seemed unimpressed.

"Kill me, kill him, kill us both," she continued, voice rising in fury. "I don't give a damn. Just do _something_, because for a major bad-ass, you're really just boring."

His hand shot out faster than either agent could see, and a moment later Jackson was reeling, falling, and Reid was there to catch her. She fell against him, gasping, impatiently blinking away the tears forming in her pain-dazed eyes. Before she could get a clear picture of Reid's mind, afraid it would be her undoing, she straightened.

Jackson stared at the man. Turned her head and spit blood. Wiped her mouth with a hand that barely trembled. "You could have just told me to shut up," she rasped out, her voice sounding a little thick as the words struggled to pass over a split lip.

The man stepped closer and grabbed her chin in a vice-like grip. He raised her head, tilting it to an almost painful angle, and she gritted her teeth. Tried desperately to ignore the taste of blood coating her tongue. "I'm not going to kill you, little fed," he said, his voice a menacing caress. "He is." He nodded in Reid's direction, and then shoved Jackson from him with vicious force.

She fetched up against the back wall and her breath left in a rush. Before she had it back enough to form a suitable retort, he had slammed the door of their cell behind him with a decisive clang.

Once he heard the outer door close, Reid moved a cautious step closer. "Are you ok?" he asked, feeling stupid.

"Peachy," she gasped, pushing herself off the wall.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, delicately dabbing at her split lip with the hem of his shirt. "I should have stepped in, said something."

"No," she replied softly, "it's better this way. Now he thinks you'll be the one to break. He'll be watching me for rebellion, not you. You heard what he said."

"They'll find us," he assured her. The look in his deep-set hazel eyes said something else.

"We have to be prepared in case they don't."

He took off his tie and handed it to her to use as a handkerchief. "This shouldn't be happening to you, Jack."

"Oh, boy genius, don't go there. We're not playing any blame games. I let him get a jump on me. I gave him my phone, then I turned my back. So if you want to go there..." She trailed off, brows raised, offering to let him have the first shot.

"It's just ironic considering the way I've been treating you lately."

She sighed and slid down the wall to sit, her knees raised, hands dangling between them. "It doesn't matter, Spencer. It never did. Call me a glutton for punishment, but even pissy Reid wasn't going to drive me away." She leaned her head back against the cold, rough cinderblocks and closed her eyes.

He crouched in front of her, folding his long, lean body into a shape that should have been terribly uncomfortable. "Morgan's going to kill me when he sees that lip," he remarked with a little smile.

"He might kill you anyway for getting kidnapped again. That's twice in four months, you know," she said without lifting her head or opening her eyes. Her voice was deceptively light, but he could hear the gentleness in it.

He rubbed a hand across his narrow chest. It hurt, that voice, even more than her put-on anger had before. It reminded him of how beastly he'd been to this genuinely kind, generous woman who inexplicably cared about him. She had never asked him for anything, yet he knew on a basic, visceral level that he had failed her by not living up to the faith she'd had in him since day one.

"He didn't physically attack any of the other victims," he finally said, steering the conversation into safer territory.

"No," she agreed. "He's devolving, maybe. I don't think he'll wait for us."

Distracted by a sharp, shooting pain in his leg, he shook his head and tried to focus. "What do you mean?"

Her face scrunched as she looked over at him. She wasn't sure if she'd ever heard those words come out of Spencer Reid's mouth the entire time she'd known him. "I mean he'll try to provoke us; divide us. If that doesn't work, I think he might get bored and kill us himself."

"If we fail at hating each other enough for one to shoot the other, you mean?"

Her mouth quirked, and she flinched a little. "Yes," she said, "if that."

He tried to wipe the sweat from his brow without her noticing. "It's dangerous, what we do," he remarked dryly.

"No kidding. Maybe we should switch to white collar."

"It's an idea, except you suck at math."

Dark brows came together over clear green eyes. "It's not all math. And I don't _suck_ at it; it's just not my area." He gave her a skeptical look, and she couldn't suppress a smile. "Yeah, ok, I suck at it. But it's not all math."

"No, it's not. You could get lucky."

She snorted out a laugh, winced. Raised a hand to her pounding head. "Right, because my luck's so grand now."

Frowning, fighting back a shiver, he glanced around the cell with big, nervous eyes. "How long do you think we were out?" he asked anxiously.

"Our watches are gone," she pointed out. "He wouldn't have relied on the blows to the head to keep us unconscious; he probably doped us with something. So, who knows? A few hours, maybe."

"He took a big risk with us. The other victims could have genuinely believed his offer, but we know it's bullshit. Neither of us will leave here alive if he has his way."

"Then we have to make sure he doesn't get his way, don't we?"

* * *

_I'm having trouble with this story, because I basically want to spend all my time with Reid and Jack in their little cell. I wanna find out what happens to them, but I need to focus a bit on the team searching, too. Ah, the things we wrestle with..._

_Review me if you stopped by! Thanks for reading.  
_


	9. Screaming at the Stars

**a/n:** Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! I was able to power through the chapter that was blocking me, and I'm about to start the (hopefully) last chapter! Right now it looks like we'll have 13 total (inc. the prologue), but it _might_ get bumped to 14. I kinda hope not.

This chapter is all team, no Reid and Jack. It's the last chapter that doesn't have any Reid and Jack at all; I just needed to do a purely case-centric chapter.

Oh, and in a completely personal note: the spell check here has a really limited dictionary! In my first paragraph alone it marks 3 misspelled words - "coquina," "lightless," and "stygian." Hmmph.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Screaming at the Stars**

**Maybe I should drop you at your door,  
Or leave tonight and vanish up the shore;  
Anywhere but here.**  
-Better Than Ezra, "At the Stars"

Night was falling fast over Anastasia State Park. Beneath the hammock forest shadows lurked in dark, liquid pools. The dunes muffled sound, but the coquina rock quarry echoed with night noises. The park had been cleared of visitors, and now only the team and local P.D. remained, combing the lightless corners and flat, empty expanses of stygian water.

"Did you talk to them at all after they left the station?" Gideon was asking a guilt-ridden Hotch.

"No; E.J. was going to check in after they hit the first dumpsite. I didn't hear from her, but I figured they were still investigating. They're good agents, Gideon; I trusted them." A sliver of moon was just beginning to rise, but it offered scant illumination, and Hotch scanned the murky park with hooded, brooding eyes.

"No one blames you, Hotch. Spencer needed a chance to apologize, and it was better for him to do that somewhere neutral. It was a good plan," Gideon assured the younger agent.

Hotch shook his head, refusing the comfort his former mentor was offering. "We know the UnSub abducts young couples from the park. I sent Reid and E.J. here knowing they were fighting, that they might not be as focused or as careful as they should be. I put them at risk, and now..."

"Hotch, man, you can beat yourself up over it later. Right now we have to concentrate on finding them. They're good agents, like you said, even if the kid has been a little off lately. They know the UnSub's game, and they can definitely outsmart him and stay alive. Now it's our job to take advantage of the time they're gonna buy us," Morgan told him.

Hotch opened his mouth to reply, but before he could form any words, his phone rang. "Garcia," he told them as he glanced at the caller ID. "Garcia, you're on speaker."

"Give us what you got, baby girl," Morgan said, the lightness of his words belied by the somber tone of his voice.

"I'm guessing you haven't found Reid or Jack," she said by way of greeting.

The three men shared a grim glance. "Not yet, sweetheart, but we haven't finished looking yet," Morgan said gently.

They heard her take a deep, gasping breath. "Ok. Ok. I'm just trying not to think about..." She trailed off, and they heard a little squeak.

"It's alright, baby, we know," Morgan comforted. "Just tell us what you've found."

"I checked missing persons like you asked," she said, voice sounding a little steadier. "I only got one hit, but I think it's a good one. Last spring Amanda George and Jamal Warren dropped off the radar mid-semester. Jamal resurfaces about two weeks later, but there's no sign anywhere of Amanda."

"Were they a couple?" Gideon asked.

"Honestly, sir, I have no way of knowing. There were no newspaper articles or anything else about it. They were both C to B students with few extracurricular activities. I _can_ tell you they had Chemistry together the semester they disappeared."

"Hhmm," Hotch mused, "quite a bit different from his current victimology. Where is Jamal Warren now?"

"He's living just north of Jacksonville. He works for a construction company, and other than the employment record and driver's license, there's not much information about him."

"Alright, Garcia, thanks. Call us if you find anything else," Gideon told her.

"We'll talk to you soon, baby girl," Morgan promised before Hotch snapped the phone closed.

"Let's keep looking here for now," Hotch said. "Tomorrow we'll head north to talk to Jamal Warren. I want to know what he knows about our UnSub."

"What if it's just coincidence?" Morgan asked. "It was a year ago."

"Maybe he just prefers to hunt in the spring," Gideon suggested. "The weather's changing, people are coming back to the park. It's not too hot. It's a good time to people watch."

"I don't think it's coincidence," Hotch said. "He probably started just watching, enjoying the cracks he noticed in seemingly solid relationships. At some point he came up with the idea of observing them more closely, in an environment of his choosing. He started slowly, and gradually he escalated to Amanda and Jamal. He let Jamal live like he promised, but it was a let-down."

"Next time he decided to kill them both," Gideon concluded. "More satisfying, and fewer witnesses."

Morgan's jaw clenched. He looked away, brows furrowed. "What if he doesn't wait for them?" he managed in a tense, hard voice.

"He'll wait," Gideon said. "Not forever. But he'll wait."

"Agents!" It was Detective Rodriguez hurrying towards them, J.J. following at a near run. "We found something," he said.

"Take us," Gideon instructed simply, and the three men set off after them at a jogging clip. They topped a small dune to find a clearing with one of the wooden restroom shacks. The older agent frowned and hurried to follow Rodriguez and J.J. into the men's room.

"I think he must've gotten sloppy," the detective said, pointing out the hypodermic needle lying guilelessly in the middle of the bathroom floor.

"No," Gideon disagreed. "He wanted us to find this."

"Is that blood?" Hotch asked, kneeling to examine the small, rusty droplets scattered across the tile.

"Looks like it," Morgan confirmed. He ran a hand over his head a few times and tried to focus. "Ok, so Reid comes in here to use the restroom. He's washing his hands." Morgan stood in front of the sink, imitating his young colleague. "The UnSub comes up behind him and sticks him."

"Jack's waiting outside," Gideon continued. "The UnSub runs out, posing as a concerned Good Samaritan."

"E.J. follows him back in here," Hotch said, rising and moving to the door. "She sees Reid passed out on the floor, so she kneels down next to him." He knelt, facing the back wall just as Jackson had done a few hours earlier.

"The UnSub comes up behind her and knocks her out," Morgan said, swinging an imaginary club at his boss' head.

"The blood splatters as she falls," Hotch said, pointing. "Detective," he asked, standing again, "how far are we from the nearest parking area?"

"Half mile, give or take," he estimated. "There's no way he carried them that far in the middle of the day. Someone would have seen him."

Morgan was peering out the open restroom door, his face creased with thought. "Maybe not," he said contemplatively.

"What are you thinking?" Hotch asked as he moved to join him.

"Are ranger vehicles allowed back here?" he asked Rodriguez.

"Yeah, they can go anywhere besides on the dunes or in the nesting areas."

Morgan raised his brows at Hotch. "If he's a ranger or a volunteer, he'd have access to the SUVs they drive. He could've parked right here."

"Jack would've seen the car," Gideon said. "She would've been on the lookout for a ranger."

"Maybe he parked a bit further off, then went back and got it," Hotch suggested.

J.J., who had been tense-faced and silent up to this point, pulled a park map out of her back pocket and spread it open. "Easy enough to find out," she remarked. "Reid marked off all the places where vehicles can park, including official areas. I thought it might come in handy tonight."

Hotch's mouth lifted in an appreciative smile. "Good work, J.J." He pointed a blunt finger at an area marked in red for official parking only. "It's just up the trail," he said. "Reid and E.J. wouldn't have gotten that far yet, so they wouldn't have seen anyone parked there."

"Perfect spot for an ambush," Gideon remarked bleakly.

The night around them seemed impenetrably dark, and they all wondered when - or if - it would begin giving up its secrets.

* * *

_Thank you for reading, and drop me a review if you're enjoying!_


	10. Ill With Want

**a/n:** Here we go, an entire chapter devoted to our poor, beleaguered captives.

Thanks so much, everyone, for the reviews. I finished the story last night! Hooray! I'm so excited. It needs tweaking (what doesn't?), but it's all written. Now I can focus on "Still Right Here," another idea I have, and...the third story in the Elliot Jackson series!

* * *

**Chapter 9: Ill With Want**

**Pull me closer to your breast;  
I need you finally, I confess.  
I'm drifting; I'm drifting.  
I love you but I hate you, too.  
God only knows what I could do.**  
-Better Than Ezra, "Daylight"

Jackson had managed to doze off despite the cold, hard cement she was forced to lie on. Sheer exhaustion eventually won over comfort. Something had woken her, though, some noise in the cell. At first she was afraid it was the UnSub, returned, but a quick glance told her that she and Reid were alone. The sound, she realized, was coming from Reid: small whimpers, accompanied by chattering teeth. Her brow creased, and she moved closer. "Spencer, this is no time to bite my head off. Are you ok?"

Sweating, shuddering, he managed to shake his head. "I don't think so," he gasped out. How long had they been here? Surely not a full day, surely only a few hours... He had hoped they'd be out of here before withdrawal started in earnest, but he should have known better. He'd been hiding it from her - the pain, the chills - but now he felt like he'd been racked (not that he'd ever been racked, but the excruciating pain in every joint was probably pretty similar...), and he couldn't control the tremors. Nausea came in waves, and the sweat poured off of him.

Jackson looked around the cell, searching for something she could use to cover him. Of course there was nothing. "Hey!" she called. "Hey, guy! He's sick. We need some help in here. I know you can hear me, and I know it doesn't do you any good if he's sick."

Silence, like the world holding its breath.

"Hey!" she cried again, louder, as she beat both hands against the cell door. "Listen to me! I know you're there!"

"It's ok, Jack," Reid said. "I'll be fine. Don't provoke him."

"You need help, Spencer. He'll come; he doesn't want one of us dying without the other's help." She sat down next to him and pulled his thin, shaking body against hers. He put up token resistance, but not enough to stop her. "Hush," she whispered. "You need to keep warm, and it appears the hotel is currently out of blankets."

"Don't read me," he said in a small, strident voice.

"I won't," she assured him. "Just try to sleep. I'd sing you a lullaby or something, but that would probably just make you feel worse."

"Your voice can't be...any worse...than mine," he managed between clacking teeth.

She smiled and smoothed the hair back off his damp forehead. "Don't believe it, kiddo."

"You know you're...only like...two months older than...me...right?"

"It's more a term of endearment than an actual statement on your age. Don't try to talk anymore; I'm afraid you'll bite your tongue off." She was only half-joking; his teeth were chattering so hard she worried they might break. She held him tighter and tried not to think about the cause behind his sudden illness.

Eventually they both must have slept, because it seemed like only an eye-blink later the door was swinging open on silent hinges. "Spencer, wake up," she whispered into his hair, shaking him. He stirred and she carefully lowered him to the floor before getting to her feet. "He's sick," she told the man. "He needs medicine."

The man smiled, a dark, chilling grin that sent a bolt of fear straight through her. "He's not sick, exactly, but I did bring medicine."

Reid wasn't sure if he was more relieved or more horrified by the sight of his kit in the man's hand. It would end this pain, but then Jack would know...

The man tossed the small bag to Jackson, and she fumbled to catch it. "Open it," he told her. "Ask him why he's shaking like a leaf and sweating like a pig. Ask him what he was doing in that bathroom, and why it was so easy for me to get a jump on him, big FBI man that he is."

She stared down at the bag and tried to keep her face blank. It was true, then, everything she'd worried about, everything she'd feared. He'd gone into that bathroom to get high, and the man had taken advantage of his drug-induced fog—

She slammed the door on that line of thought. No blame games. She'd already said it, and she had meant it.

"Ask him!" the man barked.

Jackson looked down at her partner. Back at the man. Carefully, deliberately, not taking her eyes off their captor, she knelt and set the bag on the floor by Reid's elbow. "No," she told the man in a quiet, firm voice. "If he wants to explain himself to me, he can. Otherwise, it's his business."

"His 'business' got you into this mess, little fed."

"No," she repeated. "You picked us the moment you set eyes on us. You would've had us one way or another."

He sneered. "You keep telling yourself that." As before he slammed the door behind him on the way out. She jumped at the sound, even though she'd known it was coming.

Silence filled their small cell like a dark, living thing.

"Jack," Reid managed at last. He wanted her to turn around, to look at him. He'd spent the last few months avoiding her attention, running from it, but now he just wanted one glimpse at her face.

"No," she said for the third time. "No, Spencer. I told him I wasn't going to ask, and I'm not. You do what you have to do, because I need you here. I can't do this alone. If what's in that bag will bring you back to me, then use it."

There was the sound of a zipper, then the clink of glass. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought...at his sigh of relief, she slowly turned around. The needle was still in his arm. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, and the familiar, finely-made face was smooth, calm; blissful. She shuddered. "You're a drug addict, Spencer," she said in a soft, still voice.

His eyes opened. He pulled the needle out, wiped it with an alcohol swab, and stowed it back in the kit. When everything was arranged again, he zipped it closed. He wouldn't raise his head to meet her accusing gaze. "You don't understand," he said at last. "Tobias—"

"I know," she interrupted harshly. "He gave you the drugs. We all saw. I know that, and I know how hard it is to come back from an experience like yours. But, Spencer, you made a choice. You're the one who kept using."

He looked up then, his expression raw and beseeching. "Jack, please—"

"No. You don't get to do that. You don't get to look at me like that." She spun away, struggling to breathe. Her hands were visibly shaking. She clenched them into tight, hard little fists. "I trusted you," she finally managed. "You're my partner and my friend, and I trusted you to keep me safe. You held my life in your hands over and over in the last four months." She raked tense, rigid fingers through her short dark hair. "You were getting high when you were supposed to have my back. You could have gotten us _both_ killed."

"Turn around. Please."

"I can't!" she whispered savagely. "I can't look at you right now, Spencer."

He took a long breath. Let it out through stiff, numb lips. Rubbed the back of a long-fingered hand across his mouth. "What can I say to you?" he asked helplessly.

"Nothing," she rasped. "There's nothing you can say." She crossed the cell and leaned against the far wall. Sat with her back pressed against the cinderblocks. She still wouldn't look at him.

"I should have told you," he said at last.

"Yes," she replied dully.

"You would've helped me."

"Yes," she repeated, finally meeting his eyes, "I would have. Instead I watched you, and I worried, and I didn't say anything to Hotch or Gideon."

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have put you in that position."

"And yet you did." She said it quietly, without any of her previous acrimony. Still the words burned.

Before he could form a suitable reply (perhaps another apology?), there was a metallic scraping at the door. Their heads pivoted toward the noise simultaneously, and they watched as a tray was slid through the small opening and into their cell.

Frowning, wondering, Jackson rose. What she saw made her go cold.

"What is it?" he asked, shakily gaining his feet and coming to join her.

"A gun," she murmured, "and a note."

"'I won't be back until you've used this,'" he read.

"There's only one bullet," she told him after checking the revolver's cylinder. "I guess he expects us to be better shots than the previous victims." They both stared at the weapon in her hand. Blood-shot hazel eyes met fear-widened green ones.

"Now what?" he breathed.

"Now we wait."

* * *

_Once again I've taken some poetic liberties with the effects of hydromorphone. The severe withdrawal symptoms Reid's experiencing in this chapter wouldn't really happen for another 24 hours or so (withdrawal - ie, sweats - can start in as few as 5, but symptoms don't usually peak for 48 hours), but I wanted him pretty sick. Poor kid._

_Also, those of you who've read Reid's chapter of "Just Breathe" might notice I stole the title of this chapter from the Avett Brothers song I quote there. It's too perfect to waste. :)_

_I'd love a review from you, lovely reader. (yes, **you**!)  
_


	11. The Importance of Communication

**a/n:** Thank you as always, dear readers, for the wonderful reviews. They make me smile. :)

* * *

**Chapter 10: The Importance of Communication**

**Wearing the ages;  
Mining the seats for cash.  
Worn on the edges;  
Faded like a photo left too long on the dash.  
**-Better Than Ezra, "Juarez"

Next morning the sky was a blinding azure, and no cloud dared to mar the expansive perfection. In a black SUV heading north much too fast for safety, Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner weren't really appreciating the day's beauty. They were too focused, too single-minded, and the only thing either man cared about was finding the killer who had taken their fellow agents.

Morgan drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Fiddled with the radio. Whipped around traffic at break-neck speeds. "How long do you think he'll wait?"

Hotch was studying the file in deep concentration, trying to ignore Morgan's erratic driving as best he could. He looked up slowly, forehead only barely smoothing as he focused on the other agent's question. "I don't know. It depends on how fast he figures out Reid and E.J. have no intention of accepting his ultimatum."

"He abducted two FBI agents. They know his game. Don't you think he figured they wouldn't accept even before he took them?"

Hotch's expressive brows lowered, came together. "Yes," he answered shortly.

"So why them? Why Reid and Jack?"

He turned to look out the window. "What do you think Reid's problem has been since his abduction? Why has he been acting so erratic, and why has he been so rude to E.J.?"

It seemed like a change of subject, but Morgan knew it wasn't. His jaw clenched; his forehead creased. He hadn't wanted to ponder that question too closely, but now Hotch was throwing it out there. He had no choice. "Jack said..." He sighed. Smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel a couple of times. Glanced at Hotch. Back at the road. "She said he was hiding something from her. She was worried about what it could be."

Hotch lowered his head. Rubbed his temples. "Did she offer you any theories?"

"No."

"But she knew."

"She suspected."

"And what do you suspect, Agent Morgan?" he asked in a quiet, careful voice as he turned to look at his friend and colleague.

Morgan ground his teeth. "Tobias Henkel was a hydromorphone addict. He gave the drug to Reid when he was holding him."

"Such an addiction would go a long way toward explaining Reid's behavior."

"He's too smart for that shit, Hotch. He'd never—"

"Gideon said it, Morgan: we trained him to use his mind. We didn't train him on how to cope with an ordeal like that one. Gideon or I should have stepped in before things went this far. He's a sensitive kid; I think we all forget that sometimes."

"He won't shoot her, Hotch. I don't care how messed up he is; he'd never hurt someone in cold blood."

"No. I don't think he will. What worries me is how the UnSub will react when he doesn't."

Morgan pressed his foot onto the gas pedal a bit harder. The big engine roared, and the SUV sped forward. "This Warren kid better have something for us. I'm not goin' to any God damn funerals."

"We're not going to let it come to that, Morgan. I don't care if we have to search every inch of St. Augustine and Anastasia Island, we're getting them back."

"Damn straight," Morgan agreed grimly.

* * *

"Talk to me, Jack."

"About what?"

"Anything. I don't care. I need distraction. Tell me about your family; we've never talked about them before."

"Um. There's not much to say, really. I had a really normal childhood - mom, dad, dog - the American dream."

"What happened?"

"How do you know something happened?"

"I'm a profiler. The powers of my mind are staggering. Don't snort at me!"

"Don't say ridiculous, high-flown things."

"But something did happen?"

"Yes. Something did."

"You sent your mom flowers on Mother's Day."

"Nothing gets past you, boy genius. Yes, my mom and I are relearning...how to be, I guess."

A silence fell as he waited for her to continue.

"I've had my ability all my life. When I was a kid it was really easy, just stray thoughts now and then popping into my head. No big deal. When I hit puberty, things went a little haywire."

"That's what usually happens, isn't it?"

"Hhmm. Do you remember in _The X-Men_ when the little mutants would come into their powers, and Professor X would show up and whisk them away to Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?"

"A bald man in a wheelchair took you from your family to a mutant school?"

"Not exactly. I'd been on the Agency's radar for a while. When my moods began to have an effect on the moods of people around me, they decided I was powerful enough to warrant their attention.

"It wasn't like they kidnapped me or anything so drastic. My parents didn't know how to handle me; in the Agency program I could be around other kids like me, or sometimes...kids like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes. Super geniuses. Real off-the-charts stuff. You would have been right at home there."

He shifted uncomfortably. "My mom would've...I don't know what she would've done, but it wouldn't have been pretty."

"It wasn't a prison or anything. My parents came to visit. We were allowed to go home for holidays. But it was weird, you know, because we had to keep everything so top secret. Most of us chose to just stay. It was easier."

"So what happened to your dad?"

"My parents split when I was fifteen. My dad was never fully comfortable around me after he realized the extent of my ability; he and I don't speak these days."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not...if I let it, it would bother me. So I don't."

"Your mom was ok, though? I mean, with...you."

"Her mother could do it, too."

"Oh..."

"Yeah. Hey, Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"You know if you tell anyone all of this, I'll have to kill you."

"That's not funny, Jack."

* * *

Jamal Warren looked nervous. Skin a few shades darker than Morgan's glistened with sweat. Chocolate colored eyes darted from Hotch to Morgan and back again. He cracked his knuckles one by one.

"Mr. Warren, we need to know what happened to you last year. You dropped out of Colben after a two-week disappearance. Your previous school records were good," Hotch said quietly.

"Did you know a girl named Amanda George? She was at Colben the same time you were," Morgan asked.

He started at the mention of Amanda's name. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't want any trouble," he said after a moment.

Hotch held up pictures of Reid and Jackson. "We believe the same man who abducted you and Amanda is now holding these people. We need your help to find them."

"They cops?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

"FBI agents," Morgan confirmed. "Members of our team. Mr. Warren, this guy has already killed three couples in the past few weeks."

"Couples?" he said, brows flicking upward. "You mean he's killing both of them?"

"Did he give you the same ultimatum, sir? He told you if you killed Amanda he'd let you go."

Warren staggered a little, as though Hotch had struck him. "I had no choice," he whispered.

Morgan held up a hand. "We're not here to arrest you or cast blame. We just want to know what happened."

"You're a big man, Mr. Warren. How did he subdue you?"

"I wasn't big back then. I've spent the last year lifting, bulking up. I keep expecting him to come back for me; I wanna be ready." He took a long breath, and they watched him reach a decision. "You guys better come in," he said, stepping back and opening the door wider.

His apartment was sparsely furnished, like he was only there temporarily. Perfect for someone who might need to move fast. Warren took another breath before perching on a chair and gesturing for Hotch and Morgan to take the couch. Morgan sat, but Hotch remained standing.

"Tell us what happened, Mr. Warren," Morgan urged.

"It was a little over a year ago," he began, rubbing sweating palms against well-worn jeans. "Amanda and I hadn't been dating long. We met in Chem. I sucked at it, and she helped me out a lot."

"Where did you go when you went out?" Hotch asked.

"To the park or the beach. We weren't into clubs and stuff."

The two agents shared a glance.

"We were at the park one afternoon, surfing and hiking. Some guy asked me to help him change a flat. It was a little weird, because he was a lot bigger than me, but I said sure."

"What happened next, Mr. Warren?" Morgan prompted gently.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes far away. "I'm not sure. I knelt down beside the car, and the next thing I remember is waking up with Amanda in the cell."

"Cell?" Hotch asked sharply.

"Yeah. Small; concrete floor, cinderblock walls, metal door. He said if one of us shot the other, the one who did it could go free." He paused, overcome; struggled to continue. "After a week he took away our food. We decided to draw straws. She got the short one."

"You didn't fight? You weren't angry with her when you shot her?" Morgan asked with a meaningful glance up at Hotch.

"No, nothin' like that. Before she died, she said...she told me she was glad it was me." He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

They gave him some time before Morgan said, "Do you remember anything about what he looked like?"

"I don't know. Big, white. Dark hair. Dark glasses, even inside."

"Would you be able to sit with a police sketch artist?"

He hesitated, but then nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

The agents offered him their cards, shook hands, and took their leave much wiser than when they'd arrived.

* * *

_Things're really gearing up now! Let me know if you liked it and are excited for more with a review, my loves. :D_


	12. Discoveries and Plans

**a/n:** Thank you all so much for the reviews for last chapter! I haven't done review replies to any of you because I'm always afraid I'll inadvertently give something away, but rest assured - I read each one of them and get the warm fuzzies. :D

Almost done here, kids. One more to go after this one...

Enjoy, and review me if you've stuck with it this far!

* * *

**Chapter 11: Discoveries and Plans**

**And now and again,  
You find yourself in over your head.  
In a cynical time,  
In you I find a reason to live.**  
-Better Than Ezra, "Everything in 2's"

She had noticed the sweats, the shakes. Already. So soon. But, of course, she had no real idea of how much time had passed. All she knew - all they both knew - was that it couldn't get as bad as it had the first time. She'd already told him: _I need you here_. It was even truer now than when she'd first said it.

He reached for his kit quickly, furtively, but she just turned her head. An intervention could wait for less dire circumstances. She heard the zipper, then the muffled clinks...then a quiet, pained gasp. Something was different. Her head whipped around. "Reid, what's wrong?" she asked sharply.

He had the kit in his hands and was staring into it with a horrified expression on his finely-made face. He didn't answer, so she moved closer and gave his shoulder a quick, darting touch. "Spencer, talk to me."

He shook his head as though to clear it. "They're empty," he whispered in a hollow, shocked voice.

"What's empty?" She leaned closer and peered into the small bag.

"The bottles." He pulled one out and held it up to the light. "They're all empty."

She blinked. Bit her lower lip. "Did you...um...I mean..."

He gave her a withering look. "Do you honestly think I'd come to Florida with less than half a bottle? There were two full vials in here this morning...or, I mean, you know. Before. Whenever that was."

She took the empty container from him, her face creasing in consternation. "He must've emptied them. He gave you just enough for one dose."

He looked up at her from his position on the concrete floor. The deep-set hazel eyes were wide, rimmed in darkness. "Jack, I don't—"

"No!" She dropped the empty bottle. It shattered, and she knelt, heedless, among the glass. "No, Spencer. He's not winning here."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. "He'll wait until it gets bad. Worse than before."

"He should've given us more than one bullet," she whispered back with a wry twist to her full, slightly top-heavy mouth.

"It's not funny, Jack!"

She shrugged a little, face going still. "It's either laugh or lose my mind, kiddo."

He let out a short, strangled breath. Leaned back against the wall. Their gazes locked and held for a few heartbeats before she looked away. For want of something to do with her hands, she used his discarded sweater vest to begin sweeping up the glass.

"I really don't want to shoot you, Jack," he said to her bowed head.

"Ditto. Squared," she replied without looking up. She stopped gathering the tiny, glittering shards, afraid that her shaking hands would slip and she would slice herself open. Sat back on her heels and pressed her palms against her thighs.

"We'll only get one chance," he murmured, reaching out to take one of her small hands in his long-fingered one. "I won't be completely with it."

She nodded slowly, her gaze drifting down to rest on their linked fingers. "He's big," she whispered.

A smile flickered and died across his face. "You're tough. And quick."

"We don't have any weapons besides the gun. He won't come in here if I have it."

"We have something else." He squeezed her hand, and an image flashed from his mind into hers.

She gasped, green eyes flicking back up to meet his. Suddenly her smile bloomed, brightening the bleak dungeon, and she laughed a low, rippling little chuckle. "Ok, boy genius, gimme your plan."

He grinned and began thinking it through, step by step.

* * *

"So he didn't get to watch Jamal and Amanda destroy each other," Gideon mused after hearing Hotch and Morgan's report.

"Assuming he was telling the truth - and I think he was - it was random chance that had him pulling the trigger," Hotch said.

"How awful," J.J. murmured.

"He described a cell that jibes with what the M.E. said," Morgan told them. "They don't have basements in Florida, so we're looking for someone with a large outbuilding or garage."

"He'd need to live in an isolated area, too; otherwise neighbors might see him moving the bodies."

Detective Rodriguez stuck his head in the room. "Got the fax from Jacksonville P.D. Looks like this's our boy." He held up the drawing that depicted a man with the same vague features Jamal had described. The most striking thing was his big, dark glasses.

"No mask," Morgan said, "but those glasses are just as good. That's all someone's really gonna notice."

"I'll put it out there anyway," J.J. said, taking the faxed sketch from Rodriguez. "We might get lucky."

"Luck hasn't been our friend on this one so far," Morgan remarked grimly.

Gideon rubbed his hands together, a thoughtful frown creasing his face. "Call Garcia. Get her the sketch and ask her to do a property check. I imagine our UnSub owns a sizeable chunk of land, probably something he inherited."

"Do you think it's on the island?" Hotch asked.

"No," Gideon said with a shake of his head, "the island is densely populated, except for the park. But if you take Highway 1 south a few miles, you run into absolutely nothing." He indicated the roadway on the state map. "Between St. Augustine and 95 is a lot of empty land. Tell her to start with college employees, or with anyone employed by the school's outsourced firms."

"We need names that overlap those records and park volunteer records. That should narrow it down some," Hotch said as Morgan began relaying instructions to Garcia.

Back in Virginia, Garcia's brightly tipped fingers flew over the keyboard. She threw the neon pink, feather-topped pen aside when it got in her way, and in moments she was searching database after database. "Ok, gorgeous," she told Morgan, "I've got three men who are listed as employees of the school and park volunteers. Of those, one is in his sixties, one lives on campus and seems to own no other residence, and the third..."

"The third?" Hotch prompted.

"He doesn't seem to own much of anything," she said in confusion. "Hang on, I'm checking family members." They heard the clack of the keyboard for a moment, accompanied by Garcia's muttering. Then, "Here we go, kids, pay dirt."

"Fortune five-hundred CEO pay, or lowly civil servant pay?" Morgan asked.

"Pure gold bullion, sweetness. One Daniel Burns, age thirty-seven, was widowed April 2005. He inherited property owned by his late wife; it's still listed in her name."

"April. His wife died two springs ago," Gideon remarked, eyebrows raised.

"The stressor," Hotch agreed.

"Give us an address, beautiful, and I'll love you forever."

"I hope you'd do that anyway, but an address you shall have. GPS coordinates are being uploaded to you as we speak."

"You're the queen of my world, baby girl. Good work."

"Just find them, guys. Bring them home safe," she said in a soft, serious voice.

"We will, Garcia," Gideon assured her.

Morgan ended the call and Hotch showed his phone to Rodriguez. "Can you show me where this is on the map?"

The detective considered for a moment. "About here, looks like," he said, sticking a red tack into a spot on the map off of Highway 1. "Between the city and 95, just like Agent Gideon guessed. That's the middle of damn nowhere; B.F. FL if it ever existed."

"Here comes a picture," Morgan said. He compared the photo on his phone to the sketch. "Looks pretty much like our guy. Hard to tell with those damn glasses."

"Detective, let's assemble a team. I want to go in soft, but we need to be prepared if things go bad. If he sees a lot of firepower at first, he might cut his losses and kill them. We can't let that happen," Hotch said.

Rodriguez nodded. "Can your tech get us satellite images of that property? It would be nice to know the layout. If the house is set off the road a bit it'd help us a lot."

"No problem," J.J. said, shooting off a quick email. "Garcia can get you just about anything, up to and maybe including Jimmy Hoffa."

A few minutes later Morgan was pulling the image up on the laptop. They all leaned close, peering at it, as he scrolled around. "Look," he pointed out, "that could be our outbuilding. That's where he's holding them."

"Alright," Hotch said as he straightened. "Let's not waste any more time. J.J., get us a warrant. Rodriguez, have your team armed and ready to go within the half hour. Let's hit it."

* * *

_The cavalry's coming. But can our poor, bleaguered heroes hang on!? Find out next time!_

_Reviews are lovely. :)  
_


	13. Wounded: Saved: Redeemed?

**a/n**: Last chapter! Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy...

* * *

**Chapter 12: Wounded; Saved; Redeemed?**

**I cannot disguise  
The weight I feel inside;  
Some great ocean.  
But if love could be blind,  
With no more compromise,  
What might happen?  
Could you make the choice to live?  
Or to forgive?**  
-Better Than Ezra, "Wounded"

He was sitting in the corner, his back to her. His thin body was rocking back and forth and his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. He was shaking, and his shirt was adhered to his wracked frame with cold sweat.

It was time.

She took a deep, fortifying breath and stepped toward him, trembling hand outstretched. "Spencer," she murmured, touching his shoulder gently.

He whirled around faster than should have been possible. The gun seemed to absorb all the light in the room, and in his elegant, long-fingered hand it looked alive, malevolent. She fell back, glass-green eyes wide. "Spencer, what—"

"Shut up," he spit out. "Hey!" he cried. "I'm ready to do what you want! I want to see what you're offering!"

"Spencer, please," she whispered. "You don't have to do this. You can fight it. Together, we can—"

"Save it, Elliot. Believe it or not, not all problems in this world can be solved by holding someone's hand and _hoping_ really hard."

She didn't recognize the man who stood before her, the creature who glared at her out of Spencer Reid's eyes. The features were still his - fine-boned; gracefully made; attractive in a slightly awkward, almost androgynously pretty way - but she'd never seen them twisted into such an expression of disdain, base desire, and borderline hatred. This face was that of Spencer Reid the addict, not Reid her partner, Spencer her friend.

A tear slipped down her cheek, leaving a glittering trail in its wake.

Before either of them could move or say anything further, the door swung open. Jackson sank deeper into her corner, shrinking back from the man she thought she'd known and the man who held them both captive.

"You rang?" the man at the door said in a heavy, ironic voice.

"Let me see it," Reid told him, still training the gun on Jackson. "I'm not going to kill her unless I know you have it."

A slow grin unfurled across the man's bland features. He slid a hand into his pocket and they could clearly hear the tinkle of glass. "It's right here," he assured Reid.

"No," he insisted. "You're talking about me killing my partner. I want to see the bottle. Come closer. Show it to me."

The man let out a little huff of impatience, but he did as Reid demanded. He took a few steps into the room, positioning himself between his prisoners. He pulled out the little glass vial and held it up to the light. "There. Happy now? Watch where you point that thing, kid; if you shoot me and I drop this, that's it."

Reid obligingly lowered the gun, and Jackson leapt.

* * *

The team, accompanied by St. Augustine P.D. and agents out of the Tampa Field Office, roared down Highway 1 with lights and sirens blazing. They reached Daniel Burns' rambling property in record time, but they parked the convoy well away from his driveway. As they all piled out and assembled on the side of the road, Hotch began barking orders.

"Gideon, Morgan, you're with me. J.J., Rodriguez, assemble your team and back us up. S.W.A.T., I don't want to see you anywhere near this damn place until we radio for you, got it? This man is very likely holding two FBI agents somewhere on his property. We're going to hit the house first, then the outbuilding. Everyone keep your head and don't do anything foolish. Our main objective is to get Reid and Jackson out of there alive and unharmed. Getting the UnSub out alive is secondary. Everyone clear on that?"

There were nods and affirmatives all around.

"Good," Hotch said. "Let's go get our people."

Vests donned, but weapons still holstered, they approached the house carefully. When Hotch's knock met with no answer, he nodded at his team and at the one following. Weapons were drawn, and Morgan kicked in Daniel Burns' door.

It was a surprisingly small house for such a large property, and the team soon pronounced it all clear. "Outside," Morgan said grimly.

"S.W.A.T.," Hotch said into his radio, "we're hitting the outbuilding. Be ready."

"Affirmative," the disembodied voice replied.

They were hurrying across the back lawn, weapons lowered, eyes alert, when a gunshot shattered the incongruously tranquil day.

* * *

Jackson had Reid's tie stretched between her hands, and as she landed on the man's broad back, she looped the length of silk around his neck and held on like a monkey. The man struggled against the noose, choking and spluttering, but she pulled it tighter, muscles straining.

"Shoot him, Spencer!" she demanded through clenched teeth.

His hands were shaking, palms sweating. He was afraid he would hit her, or that the bullet would go through the man's body and into hers. He wasn't a great shot at the best of times. "Jack—"

"Do it! I can't—" Her words were interrupted as the man slammed her back against the cinderblock wall and her breath left in a _whoosh_. The pain was staggering; she might have felt something crack; and her arms were going weak. Struggling to breathe, ignoring the blazing, blinding flashes arcing across her vision, she reasserted her grip.

He bashed her against the wall again. She let out a strangled grunt of pain and knew she couldn't hang on any longer. She began to slip. Small, clenched hands still clung to the tie, and the man's head jerked back, his face going from livid crimson to desperate magenta.

Reid watched the struggle through wide, disbelieving eyes. He couldn't seem to keep up with what was happening, it was all so fast... But as she started to crumple to the floor, he knew he had to act or they'd both die. Aiming as best he could with quaking hands and blurred vision, he pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Hold! Do not approach!" Hotch screamed into his radio. "Wait for my order."

Hotch, Gideon, and Morgan hit the outbuilding door at a dead run. They slammed through it, weapons raised, but the three agents stopped short at the sight before them.

Reid still held the gun in his wildly trembling hands. The UnSub - Daniel Burns - was sprawled on the floor. Jack was collapsed against the cinderblock wall; her breath came in short, pained little gasps. She was cradling herself with one arm, and a length of cloth - they recognized it, strangely enough, as Reid's tie - dangled from the other hand.

Gideon stepped forward, hands spread. "Spencer, put down the gun," he commanded quietly.

Reid started, and wild hazel eyes flicked from Burns to Jackson to Gideon. "Gideon," he choked, "Gideon...I..."

"It's ok, Spencer. Just put down the gun."

He swallowed through a parched, raw throat. Slowly, warily, he bent and placed the gun on the concrete floor well away from Burns' reach. "I shot him," he breathed, gaze fixed on the man's prone figure.

"Yes," Gideon agreed. "Well done, Spencer." He approached his young protégé and put a careful, protective arm around thin shoulders. "Let's get you out of here."

Morgan knelt next to the man and checked his pulse. "He's still alive. Hotch, get some medics in here."

Hotch radioed as he bent to examine Jackson. "E.J., talk to me," he said quietly. He didn't try to touch her; he wasn't sure how she would react.

She looked up at him with pain-dazed eyes. "I'm ok, Hotch," she gasped. "My ribs..." She shifted, winced.

"Don't try to move. The ambulance is on its way."

"Did you really attack him with Reid's tie?" Morgan asked, taking note of the livid redness around Burns' neck.

Her mouth twisted into something between a pained smile and a grimace. "Yes," she murmured. "It was Spencer's idea. I had to distract him so Reid could...Hotch, please don't be mad...I had to let him...don't be mad."

"Mad? Why would I be mad, E.J.? You had to let who do what?"

But she didn't answer. Consciousness had finally given up its tenuous hold on the young agent, and she was out cold.

* * *

Days had passed since their return from Florida. Jackson had spent the first night in a Jacksonville hospital, protesting vehemently the whole time, but despite aching ribs and lingering bruises, she was relatively unscathed. After all, she hadn't been the one to kill a man...though she had tried very, very hard.

Daniel Burns died in the hospital without regaining consciousness. No one mourned him, except, maybe, the young man who'd shot him. Reid had killed a man before, but it never got easier. That was a good thing, he knew, but still he struggled. He'd saved their lives. He'd done the right thing. Maybe he'd even redeemed himself a little?

Still he struggled.

That day, as the Virginia evening approached on silent cat's paws, the team was preparing to go home for the weekend. Morgan and Garcia joked quietly about some inside secret of their own before sharing the elevator down. J.J. was finishing up some last-minute paperwork. Gideon had already left for a quiet weekend at his cabin. Hotch was sequestered in his office, laboring over the St. Augustine report. He would be at it a while.

Reid and Jackson lingered at their desks, oddly reluctant to leave the relative safety of the BAU office. The bullpen was quiet for once, and each agent felt a strange sense of peace. Jackson sighed softly, looking over at her friend and colleague. He looked...fairly terrible. She'd told him a thousand times in the intervening days that none of it had been his fault. She was pretty sure he'd never truly believe her.

"How're...things?" she asked, her voice tentative, unsure. It was hardly adequate, but it was the best she could do for the moment.

"I'm still here," he replied vaguely.

Her mouth quirked. "Barely." She straightened some pens on her desk. Arranged papers. Avoided looking at him. Finally, "Spencer, you know I didn't tell Hotch anything."

"I know. I did."

Her head came up. Glass-green eyes widened in surprise before her expression smoothed. "I'm glad. What did he say?"

He cleared his throat, and finely-drawn brows came together as his face scrunched. "He told me to take care of it."

She relaxed a fraction. "And will you?" she asked carefully.

"I...yeah, I will."

"Good," she replied gently. "I miss you, Spencer."

He looked away, unable to bear the softness in her clear green gaze. "I miss you, too," he told her in that quiet, careful tone that had been missing from his voice since Henkel.

Her face lit in a smile. Grabbing her bag, she rose to leave. Neither of them would be helped by a long, drawn-out conversation tonight. "I'll see you Monday, then." She hesitated a moment, feeling awkward. What could she possibly say? He had saved her life; he was a drug addict whose problem had gotten them into the situation in the first place. He had saved her life, and he was her friend. "Listen to Hotch, Spencer; take care," she managed at last.

"I promise," he assured her.

She gave his shoulder a tender, uncharacteristic squeeze as she passed him. He watched her leave. A small, wistful, _pained_ smile flitted across his features, and he wondered if, finally, he could live up to the faith she had in him.

* * *

_I know that the tone of this final scene is quite a bit different from the prologue, which takes place only a few hours later, but I figure later Reid is wrestling with the decision to throw the bottles out, he's all alone, then she shows up...and the whole thing just pisses him off, so he falls back on his old defense mechanism._

_Anyway, kids, that's it for this story! I hope you've enjoyed it. I'd love some reviews with your thoughts. :)_

_I have an idea, fairly well developed, for the next story in this series, but I'm going to try to hold off for a little bit. I want to get "Still Right Here" in the can, and at least _start_ another, different AU idea I have. Right now I have the next, eh, one and a half chapters written for "Still Right Here," so look for an update soon if you're following that one.  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


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